


Got Your Back!

by WalkVeryBriskly (Vermithrall)



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: Gen, Slashy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermithrall/pseuds/WalkVeryBriskly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>￼￼￼￼￼Set in the early days of Season 1, this story is narrated by "Ox", a resident of Abel who arrived sometime before Runner 5 and is learning to become a runner after working as a porter (orderly) in the hospital.  The story tries to flesh out, so to speak, a few details of life in Abel and extrapolates just what's behind such things as "items dropped, zombies distracted".  Ox winds up meeting an injured man with useful skills, and the steadfast friend who's carrying him rather than abandon him to the zombies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Got Your Back!

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the February 2013 Fan Competition, not only before Season 2 but while I was about halfway through Season 1, having only been playing for a month. The only updates I've felt the need to make as a result is to try again to pick a runner number that hasn't been mentioned and is still plausibly low, and to remove a nostalgic line about marshmallows after hearing the Radio Abel segment "Not Anymore".

 

“Oh, man,” Sam groaned softly, “I love it when I beat you on the Xbox!  No one else has hands as strong as yours, Ox.”

I used to dislike my nickname.  Just months ago I’d had a prestigious job and had been valued for my skills as a promising young financial analyst.  Now I was valued for my ability to lug heavy supplies around.  Supplies and patients.  I tried telling newcomers that I’d studied at Oxford — which was technically true, although mainly I’d gone to college, as they call it there, in America — but people took one look at my broad shoulders and sturdy frame and guessed the true origin of my nickname.

Actually, I’d found I rather enjoyed being just about the only one here with the ability to sling a person across my shoulders — especially a large and muscular male person almost my own size — and carry him from the shacks that passed as Abel’s housing to the tent that passed as our hospital.  Enjoyed it, provided he was still alive.  Carrying the dead ones was a much less pleasant task, but like so many things these days, I was getting used to it, and at least the dead weren’t forever squirming and trying to escape and walk on their own despite their obviously serious injuries.  At least, not usually, although I’d learnt the hard way to make doubly sure before I picked one up.  My job as what my boss called an orderly, and what most of us called a porter, gave me a sense of purpose that getting my employer’s clients rich never had. 

Back when I’d arrived at Abel, there had been forty or fifty people in residence, and it had still been practical for everyone to have his or her own unique first name or nickname.  By “arrived,” I of course mean staggered up with my last ounce of strength, with nothing but the clothes on my back, wearily dragging a shovel I had no strength left to swing.  And by “in residence,” I mean huddled behind makeshift fences, grabbing a few hours of sleep in overcrowded tents only when exhaustion overcame their tendency to wake up every few moments screaming in terror.  Even by today’s standards, that’s hardly the lap of luxury, but I don’t know where I’d be now if they hadn’t let me in.  No, that’s not true; actually I know perfectly well:  I’d be shambling around feeding on the living by now, no doubt.  It had hit me how bad things had got when I realised the guards at the gate were eyeing my brain-splattered shovel as if I’d brought them the most beautiful, precious gift thing they’d ever seen.

After a long discussion, they’d told me I would be allowed in, provided I gave up my given name, which was “Thomas.”  They already had a Thomas, a Tom, and a Tommy, and since they had to turn away most people anyway, they had decided to minimise confusion by avoiding name duplication.  Now that I know the people here, I suspect they’d already made the decision and were joking; one of the things I like about living in Abel is how many of my neighbours have somehow managed to retain a sense of humour despite the dismal circumstances.  But at the time, all I knew was that there were far more people wandering around in search of shelter than these people could possibly accommodate; it spoke well of them that they were taking in even a fraction of supplicants.  And for all I knew they were slightly mad; everyone alive today had seen things, and done things, that would have required years of therapy a few months ago.  So I took their rule at face value and very solemnly told me I’d accept any name they gave me.  After a brief cold shower, one tin of food, and an hour’s rest, they’d put me to work building up some of the chain link fences until we ran out of chain link, which didn’t take long, and then issued me one clean shirt.  Sometime in the course of that, someone had dubbed me ‘Ox,’ and the name had stuck.

I’d been called by that name for long enough that I liked it now.  There was a certain affectionate admiration in the way people said it:  The head of the hospital, who was probably the nicest boss in the world, especially now with the competition considerably thinned down.  My new mates — especially Sam.  And I found I enjoyed using my strength for everything from rebuilding this corner of the world, to saving lives, to forcing groans of nearly painful pleasure from Sam as my thumbs found the knots of tension and probed deeply into his muscles through his threadbare shirt.

“Well, Sam, I figure you always paid up when _you_ lost to someone.  If you could rub Mason’s sweaty feet for an hour, I can give you a simple back rub.”

“Sweaty is right.  He’d just run halfway to New Canton and back.”

“I think you enjoyed it a bit,” I said teasingly.

He stiffened under my hands and looked over his shoulder at me.  “Wait, you don’t seriously think… Mason is _not_ exactly my type, you know.”

“Yeah, I think I know who your type is.”  I was taking shameless advantage of the fact that Sam was sitting backwards in the same folding chair he occupied all day while on duty, chest slumped against the backrest, one leg threaded between the seat and the backrest, and thus in no position to turn around and slug me, no matter how much I provoked him.  I said slyly,  “I realise Mason’s no Runner 5.”

“I guess my secret’s out now.  All my friends noticed how I reacted when she disappeared, and then when they had to shoot her.”

“Not her.”  It was still much too soon to tease him about _that_ crush, no matter how much I longed to accuse him of having a taste for “fast women.”

“I thought you said— oh.  Oh, come on!”  He twisted around to glare at me.  

 “Admit it!  The _new_ Runner 5 is all you ever talk about these days.  ‘Did you see what Runner 5 brought back yesterday?’  ‘Today Runner 5 evaded three hordes just picking up the groceries.’  ‘Most runners come back carrying less water than they went out with, but somehow Runner 5—’”

“Runner 5 and I have a very good working relationship, that’s all!” he said hotly.  “You know me better than—  Oh, wait.  I see what you’re doing.  This doesn’t count as part of the hour you agreed to.  Get back to work.”  He turned his back to me again.

Kneading his back muscles once again, I said, “I’m not teasing you to shirk on our bet, Sam.  You deserve a back rub after a long day on the comms.  I’ve seen the way you have to lean over to keep from pulling out the cable!  If it weren’t for the runners you support, I’d still have nothing to wear but the tattered remains of the business suit I arrived in.  To say nothing of the food we eat.”

“Yeah…”  He sighed.  I couldn’t tell if it was a wistful sigh for bygone days or a sigh of contentment.  “Saying nothing about the food here is probably the kindest thing to do.  It’s getting better, though.”

“We should request that from Jack and Eugene.”

“What?” he asked lazily.

“There’s a Beatles song by that title.  I wonder if they have a copy of _Sgt Pepper_.  And yeah, it’s nice to be merely hungry all the time and not on the edge of starvation.  I’m feeling strong again.  And I can feel that even you are finally putting some meat on your bones.”  I traced his trapezius muscle down to where it met his lats.  I could feel him relaxing under my touch.

“By rights I should come by and do this for you every evening, not just when I lose a game.”

“Mmmm.  I may hold you to that, mate,” he murmured.

“This can’t be very comfortable, though, sitting backwards in a metal chair.  The top edge must be digging into your collar bone whenever I bear down.”

“Yeah, well, if any of the runners find a massage table, I’ll have them bring it in straight away.”

“You think you’re joking, but that’s just the sort of heavy lifting they call me out for when they find it.”  I slipped my hand inside the back of his loose collar to knead his neck and shoulder muscles.

“I doubt…”  His voice trailed off into a moan as my fingers loosened yet another knot in his trapezius.  “I doubt the Doc could spare your time just to bring in a luxury like that.”

“Haven’t you noticed that she’s letting Runner 7 commandeer much more of my time these days?  We have three stretchers now.  Any pair of able-bodied men are strong enough to transport patients with those.  Some of the stronger women, too.”

He didn’t reply.  I think he was starting to fall asleep on me.  I slid my hand further under his collar and wriggled it into his sleeve to cup his shoulder, which I began to squeeze rhythmically.  His deltoids felt more solid than they had just weeks ago, I noted with approval.

There was a perfunctory knock, and the door opened.  We have so little privacy that knocking these days is not so much a way to say _“May I come in?”_ as _“Hello, don’t be alarmed, I’m not a zombie.  See?  I can still make a fist and maintain a rhythm for three beats.”_

“Am I interrupting anything?” asked a pleasant and cheerful voice with a North American accent, familiar to all Abel residents and to literally dozens of listeners living within a range of several kilometres.

“No worries, Eugene,” I said.  “Fortunately, we were just getting started.  See?  We’ve still got our clothes on.”

“Hey!” Sam sputtered.  “Of all the people to start a rumour with—”

Eugene laughed.  “You’re looking at it the wrong way, Sam.  I can help lay to rest the rumours that are already circulating about you two…”  He paused to use his new crutch to lever himself up into the shack, grunting slightly.

“He’s one to talk,” Sam muttered.

“…by making an on-air announcement that I found you two with your clothes on.  Folks must be wondering by now.  I mean, if you were moaning any louder, they’d be breaking the shotguns out of the armoury and setting up a perimeter.”

“Don’t worry, Eugene, I won’t let him hit you,” I said, laughing as I took hold of both of Sam’s shoulders and gently forced his chest back down against the seat rest.  “Need a hand getting in, mate?”

“No thanks, Ox, I think I’d rather have you right there, holding Sam down.”  He was doing better now that he had a proper crutch and not the old stick he’d been using until recently.  He had little trouble getting himself into the cramped confines of the comm shack, even though we hadn’t had time to worry about accessibility when we’d built the shack.  He did have a close call with his trousers, but managed to hitch them up with his free hand just in time.

“Looks like you could use a belt, Eugene,” I observed.  “Those trousers must have been sized for a man with a larger waistline.”

“Yeah,” he said.  “Me!”

“Nice shirt, though.  Is it new?”

“That new runner found it for me a week or so ago.  The one from the military base.”

“Runner 5,” Sam said proudly.  I smirked at him and he shot me a withering look over his shoulder.

“It looks almost new,” I said.

“I choose to believe that, but it’s never good to ask runners exactly where they found things.  It’s sometimes better not to know.”

“Wait,” Sam said, having slid towards me enough to turn around for a look, “I saw you wearing that shirt yesterday and the day before.”

“Like that’s unusual?”

“No, I mean, mine’s like a dishcloth after sitting here on the radio all day with the sun beating down on the sheet metal.”  He shook the damp fabric of his rumpled shirt, which he’d left partially unbuttoned, possibly because it had been a hot day, or possibly because it was missing the top buttons.  “And I’ve got a window.  You and Jack haven’t even got a window.  Why do you look like you just changed into a fresh shirt?”

“What, you think Jack and I do our broadcasts fully clothed?  In _that_ oven?”

“I… well, that’s how I always pictured it.”

“Not me,” I said cheerfully.

“Speaking of things it’s better not to know!  Thanks, Eugene, for that mental image,” Sam said sarcastically.

“Yeah!” I said with a lot more sincerity, “Thanks, Eugene!”

“Um, well, anyway, I came over to ask Sam if he has any batteries he can spare.”

“As a matter of fact,” Sam said, disentangling himself from the chair, “I do.  Just got a batch of them in today, from…” he glanced warily at me, “…one of our runners.”  After an extended search of his disorganised shelves, he produced a box.  “It’s a bit heavy.  You should probably take Ox with you.”

“I can handle it,” he said.

“Yeah, I’m sure you could,” Sam said, “if you didn’t need your free hand to keep pulling up your trousers.”

I said, “But Sam, are you really willing to interrupt your back rub?  I owed you an hour, and it’s only been, let’s see—”

“Yeah, here’s the thing, mate.  I’m not sure I want your hands on me after what you told Eugene.”  I could tell he didn’t mean it, though.

“Right.  Rain cheque, then.”  I tugged playfully at the open neck of his shirt, pulling it aside just enough to reveal another centimetre of his hairless golden chest.  “And next time, maybe lose the damp dishcloth.”

On our way across the quad, Eugene said, “Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re joking around or if you actually fancy him.  I don’t think he can, either.”

“Let him wonder,” I said.  “It’s the only entertainment any of us get around here.”

“Thanks a lot!” he protested.

“Present company excepted, I mean.  You and Jack are a reliable source of entertainment for _all_ of us.”

“You really think so?”

“Everybody thinks so,” I assured him.  “You have no idea!  Oh, and the bonfires.  Are you coming to the bonfire tomorrow?”

“We wouldn’t miss it.  It always reminds us of old times.”

* * *

 

W e had recently finished tearing down the two rotting shacks we used to sleep in, and replacing them with new, larger, somewhat less rotting shacks.  Tonight we were celebrating by piling up all the wood that couldn’t be salvaged and reused, and burning it, supplemented from the dwindling supply of felled trees cleared from the roads approaching the gate.

There’s something quintessentially human about gathering around a big roaring bonfire and telling stories.  It was nice to be reminded of where we came from, rather than were we seemed to be headed.  And the stories were a useful way of sharing experiences.

“… They roared off and drove back to town as fast as they could,” a woman whose name I didn’t remember concluded.  “The police had set up a checkpoint, and that was when they learnt that what they’d heard on the radio was actually happening.  So he immediately drove her home, and when he went around to open her door like a proper gentleman, he saw it:  a severed arm hanging from the door handle!  See, it was probably half chewed off to start with, and when he pulled away so suddenly—”

“Zombies can’t work door handles,” someone interrupted.

“I swear this is a true story.  A friend of mine knew the couple.  If only my friend had survived, she’d tell you it really happened to them.”

“Megan,” a farmer/meteorologist named Layla called, “tell the story about your friend who didn’t know her boyfriend was lying dead in the back seat until he sat up and started moaning.”

Having heard that one before, I regretfully got up and slipped away into the dark.  I had a full day ahead of me tomorrow, lugging back some building supplies a runner had found today.  The bunkhouse was already half full of exhausted men who had the same idea, but our luxurious new accommodations left a generous centre aisle I could walk down without risk of stepping on anyone.  The soft snores of my two nearest bunkmates — one a carpenter and fellow porter/orderly, and the other a cook and gate sentry who had a tendency to hog the blanket — helped guide me to my own spot on the ground in between them.  The new building was so much more spacious that my shoulder no longer brushed against the carpenter’s; if he moved a bit closer to the man on his far side we could probably squeeze another whole guy in between us now.  The comforting sound of human snoring drowned out the background of moans coming from outside the fence, and I contentedly drifted into a deep sleep.

* * *

 

“ “H ey, Sam, guess what I found?  Luggage!”

“Great!” said Sam’s voice in my headphones.  “Go ahead and collect it.  The lumber isn’t going anywhere.  Dead, dismembered _wood_ doesn’t just get up and walk away on its own.”

“So far.”

“Uh, right.  Anyway, still no zoms in your vicinity.  Don’t worry, I’ll give you plenty of warning if they come anywhere near you.  Especially the faster sort.  You’re very useful out there, but you’re no Runner 5.”

“That’s what you said about Mason, but there you were, kneeling at his feet and rubbing them.”

I don’t know why I feel even more free to taunt Sam when he’s a kilometre away.  It’s not as though it’s safer than doing it face to face.  After all, I’m much bigger than him, so what’s he going to do about it?  Whereas out here in the field my life depends on him watching my back.  I suppose that very dependence makes me feel even closer to him, and therefore more prone to suggestive banter.  Maybe it’s just that I’ll just do anything to keep him talking in my ear while I’m out there, if only to sputter incoherently at me, as he was doing now.

“Good news,” I reported.  “None of the blood got inside the luggage.  And I found a belt!  I know just what this will be good for.”

“I take it you mean holding up Eugene’s trousers before some humiliating pubic incident occurs.”

“Oh,” I said, pretending I hadn’t thought of that.  “That too, I suppose.  I also found some trousers.  Any idea what his size is?”

“Bring them in.  I’m sure they’ll fit someone.”

“That’s all that I can find that looks useful.  Whatever else the owner packed, he’s probably changed into them.”

“Just before he changed into a ghastly rotting walking corpse.”

“Who couldn’t have got far.  Thanks for that reassuring thought.  Moving on.”

“Okay.  And if you can veer just a bit to the right of the direction you’re going… that’s better.  That’s the nearest gathering of said ghastly rotting walking corpses.”

“There’s a structure behind the trees further to my right that looks like it might have been a small café.”

“Let’s see, I’ve got an old map here somewhere…”  I heard papers shuffling.

“I’m close enough now to be sure.”  There were overturned tables and chairs.  “It’s already been looted.  I don’t even see any cutlery.  Shall I have a look at whatever they _did_ leave behind?”

“I know I had it just the other day…”

“I’m inside, making my way to the kitchen.”

“Ah, here it is.  Yeah, you’re right, there used to be a café there.”

“The pots and pans and flatware are gone, probably taken as weapons.  But I found a tin of olive oil, still sealed.  Now I can give you proper massages.”

“Uh, Ox, that’s really very nice of you, but…”

“I can almost hear your ears turning red under your headphones.  Don’t tell me you’re so ashamed of that scrawny torso of yours to take your shirt off in front of a good friend.”

“Hey, I’m no scrawnier than—  Well, let’s face it, Ox, we all look scrawny next to you.”

“You won’t be _next_ to me, you’ll be _under_ me, if I can scrounge something for you to lie on.”

“Come on, man.  You know as well as I do that we’ve got better things to do with that oil.”

“Now that you mention it, I can think of a few things.”

“I mean cooking!  Salad dressing!  Fish and chips!”

Grinning to myself, I stowed the tin in my backpack.  On my way out, I saw something that immediately darkened my mood.

“Um, I found a mobile phone.  And its owner.  About one-third of him, anyway.  Shall I see if I can pry it out of his cold dead fingers?”

“You _are_ new at this, aren’t you?  It’s kinda standard procedure.”

“Poor bastard.  I wonder if he was calling for help, or calling a loved one to say goodbye?”  In the old days, I would had associated mobiles with business calls.  Back when it had been my job to foresee the rising and falling of the stock market.  Not the rising of the dead and the fall of civilisation.

“You know, this job can be depressing enough without you filling me in on all the details and adding your own speculations.  Some runners are very chatty, like Runner 8, but you know what I like best?”

“Yeah.  The quiet ones.”  Like the famously quiet and efficient Runner 5.

* * *

 

“ “R unner 19!  Do you read me?”

“I keep telling you, Sam, I walk, I don’t run.  Unless I absolutely have to.”  I hated being called ‘Runner 19’ worse than I’d ever hated ‘Ox.’  But Sam steadfastly refused to address me as ‘Brisk Walker 19.’  Finally he’d teasingly offered to call me—

“Lumberer 19!  Your comm was having some trouble, and I thought I’d never get you back.  Good to hear your voice, man.  You’ve got to return to base immediately, Ox.”

“But I’m less than five hundred metres from the lumber.  What, are you in that much of hurry to get that massage?”

“This is serious, Ox.  There’s a large mass of zombies converging ahead of you.  I expect they’d just love a good, meaty shoulder to chomp on.  We’ll have to try for the lumber another day.  They’re moving a bit slower than you can walk, but not if you’re carrying…”  Static.

“Sam?  Your transmission just faded out.  Damn.”  I turned around and headed back to base.  Oh well, our building projects could wait another day.  And at least I wasn’t coming back completely empty-handed.  If I made it back.  It made me very nervous not to have Sam watching my back.

Then my worst fears were realised:  in the distance I heard that distinctive moaning sound that sends chills up the spine of every still-living person.  And they weren’t coming from behind me, where I already knew there were zombies, but from almost directly ahead of me.  It was a zombie sandwich, with me likely to become the freshly shredded meat at the centre.  I headed off to my right at a fast walk.  Too late, I realised this was leading me into some burnt-out ruins interspersed with trees, just the kind of terrain they tell us to stay out of when we have no scanner support.

“Can you hear me?  Runner 19!  Come in, Ox!  Lumberer 19!  Whatever you want to be called.  Just answer me, man!”

“Sam!  You’re back!”

“Listen to me, Ox!  You’re headed directly towards a massive horde of zombies hidden among those ruins.  They were headed away from you, but when you overtook them they caught your sent, and now they’ve changed direction.”

“I turned this way because I heard—”

“I know!  They’re on three sides of you.”

“So I should double back?”

“Oh.  You’re picturing three sides of a square.  You can’t see my scanner, which is showing more of a sort of ragged triangular shape.”

“I’m completely surrounded?!”

“Yeah, um, your best bet is to head deeper into the ruins; that’s where the biggest gap is.  But it won’t last.  Run!”

“I’m running,” I panted.  “I suck at running!  Especially when I’m half starved!”

“You can do it, mate!”

“There’s a reason the best runners are skinny little runts.  No, wait!  I don’t want those to be my last words.  I didn’t mean to call—”

“Ox!  Shut up and save your breath for running!”

I saw them now.  Five shambling corpses, badly decomposed, lurching around the corner of a ruined building.

“I may be able to get by them if I stay on the other side of the rode, close to that other building.  Is that the gap you mentioned?”

“Yeah, um, about that gap…”

I cursed as three fresh, faster-moving zombies appeared on the other side of the road.  They’d been recently been fashionably dressed young women, and they were homing in on me and my valuable supplies.

“Damn.  They’re even more aggressive after they’re dead.  Which way do I run?”

“Turn right!  Towards base.”

“But—”  I heard moaning from that direction.  Then again, I heard moaning from all directions now.

“I know.  At least the ones in that direction aren’t so close, and they’re more spread out.”

“Afraid to look back,” I panted.

“You’re doing great.  Outdistancing even the fastest three.”

“For once,” I panted, “the zombies are the ones trying to run in high heels.”

“Be careful when you get to those bushes.”

“Holy— “  I choked off a stream of curses to protect Sam’s tender ears.  “What do I do now?”

“Stay calm.  Remember your training.  Take off your backpack, open it, and get ready to drop things.  That distracts them.  Sometimes.”

I’d heard stories about that, but I’d never had to do it.  It took all my courage to run closer to the solid wall of zombies I could see looming ahead of me now.

“Sorry about this, Eugene,” I said, even though he couldn’t hear.  “They probably weren’t your size anyway.”  I wadded the trousers into a ball and threw it.  The zombies all turned their heads and lurched towards it, somewhat like a flock of pigeons in the park after a handful of stale breadcrumbs, back in the day when humans could afford to waste perfectly good stale breadcrumbs on birds.  I glimpsed one of the zombies — it looked like it had once been a man of about 30 — stooping and holding up the trousers, for all the world as if he were about to put them on.  Apparently the memory of getting dressed for ten thousand mornings in a row had been burnt into his brain so deeply it was all that remained after all other human behaviour had fled.  He seemed puzzled, straining to remember what they were for, and would probably have pursed his lips, had he still had any.  With the trousers held in this configuration, forming a human-like shape, the other zombies swarmed around it and began plucking at it and bending down to bite pieces of out of it.  I watched as the gift I’d intended for a friend was ripped to shreds before it disappeared behind the decomposing shoulders of a dozen gathering zombies.

“Watch out on your right!  Throw something else!”

Sam had probably saved my life again by shaking me out of my morbid fascination.  The ones not engaged in the misguided feeding frenzy had been shambling towards me steadily as I stood gawking.  I quickly stuck my hand into the backpack and withdrew the next object it closed around, which happened to be the mobile phone.  Oh, well, it looked broken anyway, probably good only for spare parts.  I tossed it at the feet of the nearest approaching zombie, and it awkwardly stooped, fumbled to pick it up, and lurched back to a standing position.  To my amazement, it held it to where its ear used to be, and moaned into it questioningly.  Its companions watched it, puzzled.  Then it held it in front of its grey face with both hands, stared at the darkened, cracked screen, and began tapping at it with what was left of its thumbs.  Still fixated on the screen, it wandered off in a randomly chosen direction, with four other zombies following it like the Pied Piper.

“That’s it!  That’s it!” Sam said encouragingly.  “They’re distracted.”

As I edged between the two group of distracted zombies, I saw the mobile phone user walk face-first into a brick wall.  It dropped the phone as it staggered back, not seeming to notice its broken nose.  The other zombies dove for it phone, moaning.

 “Oh, no.  There are so many.  Ox!  Look out for the ones on your left!  Throw something else!”

“I promised you a proper massage, Sam.  There’s enough in this tin for that _and_ fish and chips for everyone, if I can make it back with it.”

“Just get _yourself_ back, mate.  That’s all that matters.”

“Sam?  Are you crying?”

“Just throw something!  Now!”

“Okay, but I’m sacrificing the belt instead.  Sorry, Eugene!”

The zombies barely glanced at the belt before shambling right over it and continuing to advance towards me.

“Damn!  They’ve got no idea what to do with a belt.  Not unlike certain unimaginative humans I could name.”

“Ox, for the love of god, throw the tin!”  He really _was_ crying!

“Right.  I’ve got the olive oil ready to throw.”

One zombie was pushing past the others.  The fresh ones are often the fastest.  This one was an attractive, sturdily built blond lad a little younger than me, maybe close to Sam’s age.  He didn’t look at all like a zombie, if you ignored the vacant stare, slack jaw, and slightly grey pallour.  His muscles still looked firm beneath the tight T-shirt visible under his unbuttoned shirt, and a small amount of blood soaked into the white T-shirt was the only sign of damage.

“Ox!” Sam screamed.  “What are you waiting for, mate?”

The blond lad moaned and reached his cold dead hands toward me.  I hurled the tin at his head as hard as I could.  The edge connected with his skull with a sickeningly satisfying crunch, and he — it — dropped like a felled tree.  Its decomposing companions paused and looked down, more interested in the tin than in their fallen comrade, or pack member, or however zombies perceived each other.

“Good!  Good!  This might work!  Just one more group blocking your exit, and then you’ll be in open ground.”

“Just one?  That would sound more encouraging if I didn’t have zero things left in my backpack.”

“Throw the backpack itself.”

That actually worked brilliantly.  The mob stopped to peer into the pack, and tug ineffectually at the zip.  One even put an arm through the strap, as if to put it on, albeit upside down, but it didn’t seem to remember how to get it up onto its shoulder.  Others seemed to be more interested in sniffing at it, especially the side that had been in contact with my back and was still darkened with my sweat.  They were tearing the tough fabric to pieces as I made my escape right past them.

* * *

 

“ “T hat was close,” I panted.  “I probably owe my life to that little bit of extra stamina the extra rations gave me.  My feet feel like lead.  And all of this was for nothing.  Nothing!  I lost everything.”

“They’re not following you,” Sam reported, sounding relieved and nearly as drained as I felt.  “You’re safe.  That’s what’s important.”

“You were really worried about me, weren’t you, mate?” I asked, glad that I hadn’t had to resort to throwing away the headphones and transmitter that kept us in contact.

“Well, you would have made one extra-large scary Frankenstein’s monster of a zombie, wouldn’t you?  I would hate to have that on the loose.”

“Extra slow and lumbering, though.”

“Uh, speaking of extra-large zombies…”

“Don’t tell me.”

“Don’t worry, there’s only one, and it’s a couple hundred metres off to your right, and not moving fast.  Probably not a fresh one.  But it’s the tallest zombie I’ve ever seen.  Hang on, this can’t be right.  Two and a half metres?  Closer to three?  And the thermal signature looks all wrong.”

There was a ridge just ten metres to my right, so I veered in that direction until I was walking along the top of it.  “I’ve got a clear line of sight in that direction now.  Where should I be looking, exactly?”

“Oh, somewhere between 2:30 and, I don’t know, almost teatime?”

“That’s what I love about you, Sam.  Your crisp and precise  directions.”

“Really?”

“No, not really!  In fact, of all the many lovable things about you, that’s got to be the least—  Hang on, I see them.”

“Them?  The scanners only show one zombie.”

“One very tall, unusually warm zombie, right?”

“Yes.”

I could make out bright blue clothing, khaki and flesh tones below it overlapping black clothing, and blue denim at the bottom.  And two heads, I was fairly certain.  Arranged vertically.  “Well, unless zombies give each other piggyback rides, I think they’re still alive.”

* * *

 

 

I t turned out to be two men.  Young guys; I guessed them to be a couple of years older than Sam and a couple of years younger than me.  One was trudging along exhausted under the other’s weight.  The one riding on his shoulders was barefoot, and his left foot was swollen and had turned ugly colours that would not have looked out of place on a zombie.

I reported this to Sam, who said, “And just when I thought I’d got you home safe.  I don’t suppose I can talk you into leaving them to their own devices?”

“No.”

“Would it help if I begged?”

“As much as I love it when you beg—”

“What?  I’ve never begged you for anything before in my life!”

“— the answer is no.  I’m going to see if they need help.”

“You do realise that there’s no guarantee we can let them in?”

“The Major just relaxed the food rationing, we just expanded the men’s bunkhouse, and we’re _this_ close to expanding the hospital we get that lumber,” I pointed out.  “We should at least find out what skills they’ve got.  We need workers.”

I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for the kind of man who would willingly risk himself by carrying an injured mate through hostile territory when the only sane thing to do was to abandon him and save himself.  Until the outbreak, that choice had been something I’d only seen presented to heroes in Hollywood action movies and old war films.  Now those circumstances frequently presented themselves in everyday life, but it didn’t turn out the way it did in the films.  Few people made the altruistic choice against long odds, and those that did ended up dying more often than not — that’s more or less the definition of “long odds” — and then eating their helpless mates alive.  Still, I’d met more cases of the rare happy ending in real life over the past few months than I’d ever expected to encounter in my lifetime, and here was yet another.

“You remind me of some friends of mine,” was the first thing I said to them when I got within speaking distance.  “Except you’re lucky enough to still have your foot.”

“Are we close to Abel Township?” said the one on the bottom.  Up close, I saw his dark shirt was a black dress shirt.  Black shirts don’t get any darker when they’re damp, so it was only when I looked closely and noticed how it was plastered against his chest muscles that I realised it was soaked through with sweat.  “We heard they’re taking people in again.  It’s our last hope.  We had a close call with some zombies this morning, and I’m exhausted.  I barely outran them.”

The guy in the bright blue T-shirt looked down at him.  “I _told_ you to drop me and run, you stupid wanker.”

That did it.  I was going to make sure these guys got in, even if I had to split my own rations with them and stack them on top of me at night.  I stuck out my hand.  “I was just on my way back to Abel.  They call me Ox.”

“Ox?”

“Because I studied at Oxford.  And if you believe that, I’ve got some anti-zombie amulets to sell you.”

The one in the wet black shirt grinned and stuck out his hand.  “I’m Corey,” he said.

The blue-shirted one reached down to grasp my hand.  “Hayden,” he said.

* * *

 

 

I t turned out I didn’t need to worry about getting them in.  Hayden had been a second-year medical student, and I lent him my headphones long enough for him to interview with Doctor Myers.

“Apparently he was doing much better in his studies than I ever did in engineering,” Sam said.  “The Doc said he’ll be the township’s second best qualified medic.”

“I never expected to get my residency so early,” Hayden joked.

“I’ll bet you never expected the hospital to be a tent, either,” I said dryly.  “But don’t worry.  We’re about to upgrade it to a corrugated steel shack.”

Hayden, of course, would not consider joining us without his mate, which by itself would have been enough to get Corey in.  It also helped that Corey was obviously strong and sturdy and that he said he’d had a summer job as a construction worker and had taken a first aid course.  Although that did make me wonder what his shirt was still doing on his back and not torn into strips to serve as a compression bandage for his mate’s foot.

I had insisted on carrying Hayden, partly to keep my headphones within grabbing distance during the interview in case of zombie warnings from Sam, but mostly because Corey was obviously at the end of his strength.  I used a fireman’s carry, modified to keep Hayden’s foot elevated slightly.  “I think the swelling has gone done a bit with it elevated,” I said when he’d given me back the headphones.  “In fact, I know this is a bit undignified, but…”

“Whoa!” Hayden said, his yelp turning into a laugh as I shifted him until I was carrying him draped over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes.  This way his injured foot was above the level of his heart.  It did  leave his head hanging down below the level of my waist, awkwardly enough, so that his side of the long conversation that followed was perforce addressed to my crotch.

The men’s story started out much like my own and like other typical horror stories I’d heard around the bonfires.  They’d been friends at university, but not close friends, and it had been only the whim of class schedules that had thrown them together when the marauding zombies forced them to evacuate.  When they’d stopped at Hayden’s dorm room for clothes and food, Corey had saved his life for the first time by killing the thing that had once been Hayden’s roommate, and he’d returned the favour twice before they’d even reached the edge of campus.

Hayden’s family owned an estate a day’s journey away on foot, so they went there.  A day, and especially a night, of watching each other’s back was enough time for them to form a close bond.

“Everyone was holed up there,” Hayden said.  “My mum and dad, both my brothers, and my old auntie.  But they didn’t want to let Corey in.”

“They were running low on Brie and crackers fast,” Corey put in.

“He knows he can get away with saying that now that I can’t kick him in the chest with my good foot.”

“Why do you think I threw away his _other_ shoe?”

“Liar!  You took it off to throw at that zombie, you... you… shoe tosser!”

I loved the way they bantered.  It was better than turning on the radio.

Hayden had told his family that they could either take in both him and his mate, or neither.  They actually considered turning them both away, or maybe they just thought they were calling his bluff, but in the end they took them both in.  A week later, when zombies from the city were about to overrun the area, the family was forced to flee on foot.

It was during that evacuation that Hayden had sprained his ankle.  His own family had decided to leave Hayden behind.

“Their own son!” Corey said angrily.  “Their own little brother!  And believe it or not, they tried to talk me into continuing on with them.  They wanted me with them now, because they’d seen what an excellent shot I was.  They had guns and plenty of ammunition.”

“He was a terrible shot.  The truth is, my aunt fancied him.”

“I don’t think you fully realise what a vulnerable position you’re in now, mate,” Corey said, reaching behind my shoulder and doing something that made the other man squirm and break into helpless laughter.

“Help me, Ox!” he pleaded.  “This isn’t fair.  Only a coward attacks an injured man.”

“I’m too busy monitoring zombie reports on the radio right now,” I lied, suppressing a smile.

“Actually,” Sam said in my headphones, “You’re still in the clear for now.”

Talking right over him, I continued, “Once we’re safe behind Abel’s fences, I’ll be glad to hold him down for as long as you like while you take revenge.  I promise.”

Eventually they finished their story.  Corey had refused to abandon his friend.  Not to travel with the well-armed family, and not later, not even when zombies were overtaking them at such a slow shamble that he could easily have outrun them if he’d been unburdened.

That sort of thing always gets to me.  I actually had tears on my cheeks, and I couldn’t wipe them away to keep Corey from seeing them.  Not without dumping his friend on his head.  Hayden, at least, was in no position to observe my emotional reaction to his story, as long as it was limited to tears.  “The real brother,” I said, trying not to choke up, “is the one who doesn’t leave you behind.”

“Exactly!” said Hayden.

“Have you two ever heard the old song ‘He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother’?”

“No.”  “I don’t think so.”

“You will.  A lot.  We’ve got a radio at the recreation centre you can listen to, and it’s one of the personal favourites of the guys who run their own amateur radio station.  That and ‘Lean on Me.’”

We could see the back of the hospital in the distance, and my arms were just starting to get tired of holding up the unbalanced load, when Sam spoke up.

“You’ll need to pick up the pace, Ox.  There are half a dozen zoms closing in on you.  At this rate they’ll head you off before you reach the fence, let alone circle all the way around to the gate.”

We tried, but burdened with Hayden, I wasn’t much faster than Corey had been, even after shifting the injured student back into a fireman’s carry.  And Corey was still so exhausted that even unburdened he was shuffling along at a pace not much better than a recently converted zombie could achieve.

“I think it’s time to consider leaving your new friends behind,” Sam said sadly.

“That’s not an option,” I said grimly.

“What’s not an option?” Hayden asked, but I didn’t answer.

“Well, there’s another trick that might work,” Sam said, “if any of you have got matches.  See that half-burnt wooden structure ahead of you and a bit to your left?”

* * *

 

“ “Y ou were right, Sam.  It was full of dry leaves.  I hardly had to use any of the extra can of fuel the arsonists left.  And we’re now standing downwind of the fire as you directed, choking on the smoke and ashes.”  I paused to cough.  “What else is that supposed to accomplish, besides making us die of smoke inhalation before they can tear into us?”

“Well, in theory, the smoke should mask your scent until the zombies lose interest.”

“In theory?  And what happens if we lose consciousness before they lose interest?”

“Hey, I was improvising, okay?  You got yourself into this fix, mate.  I _begged_ you to just leave them!  Most runners are happy to collect a shirt, a pair of trousers, some underwear.  You were the one who decided to collect the whole guy who’s inside them.  Anyway, I _have_ got a Plan B.  One of you can try to trick the zoms into walking into the fire.”

“How do we lead them into the fire?  We’re no more fireproof than zombies are, and a lot more sensitive to pain.”

“I didn’t say ‘lead,’ I said ‘trick.’  Run close to them and throw something.  And I recommend someone nimble do it.  Like, oh, say, the one who’s not carrying a full-grown man on his back.”

“Corey, how fast can you run?” I asked, coughing.

“On a good day?” Corey asked.  “Or right now?”

“Right now.”

“You’ve seen my top speed, I’m afraid.”

“Down you go, Hayden.”

“Please tell me that’s ‘down you go’ as in ‘nice knowing you, best of luck,’” Sam said.

“I need something to throw that they’ll chase after,” I said.  “Have either of you got a mobile?”

“We threw them away to save weight when they stopped working,” Hayden said.

“Give me your shirts,” I said, unbuttoning my own flannel shirt.

Hayden unhesitatingly pulled his over his head, but Corey said, “What?  My shirt?  No.”

“Good grief, you’re even worse than Sam!”

“I heard that!”

Hayden tossed me his bright blue shirt.  Of the two, at least it was the one more likely to catch the zombies’ eyes.  I circled around the fire, clutching two shirts in one hand and the can of fuel in the other.  I poured the fuel out so that it formed a large puddle close to the fire.  As I finished, the zombies either heard me coughing or caught sight of me, or scent, or whatever sense they use.  Ignoring my instincts, and feeling very vulnerable, I ran right towards them, yelling and waving the shirts, then led them towards the flames.  At the last moment, I tossed the shirts between the puddle of petrol and the fire, and veered off.  The zombies shambled obliviously through the fuel and picked up the shirts.  Eyes still stinging from the smoke, I watched as some of them sniffed at them as if trying to work out if Hayden and I were still inside them.  A male zombie who looked no older than Sam snatched my shirt out of the hands of the others and held it up as if thinking about trying it on.  I could have told him it was too big for him; the kid’s ribs were sticking out.  Quite literally.  A less recently converted zombie of indeterminate age and gender followed his example with blue T-shirt.  The human shape again triggered the feeding behaviour in the others, who tried to chomp the empty shirts.

Meanwhile, I picked up the non-burning end of a beam and tossed it into the puddle.  It instantly set the puddle ablaze, and fire raced along the fuel the zombies had trailed behind them, until it lapped at their feet.  The zombies, intent on tearing our shirts to shreds, seemed not to notice that their own clothes had caught fire.  They showed no sign of pain at all, unless you count the loud moaning.   Not even when their skin began to blacken.  Finally, when the shreds of Hayden’s shirt and then my own caught fire, and they found themselves empty-handed, they lost interest and began wandering off.  Half retraced their steps through the now-blazing puddle and immediately flared up and collapsed like so many melted candles, their moans cutting off suddenly.  Most of the rest continue on into the burning building.  One of those, a frail-looking one that had had grey hair in a bun, fell after taking just a few steps.  Others began collapsing one by one, their moans slowly dying out.  A few others staggered out of the fire, collapsing one by one into smoking heaps.

One of them happened to head in my general direction and seemed to suddenly notice me.  It let out a moan and took a few steps towards me before falling on its face, its feet structurally incapable of supporting it.  It was a short skinny one, probably just a teenager when it had died the first time.  Another, attracted by the moan, started toward me.  It was a sturdily built man between 20 and 50, his nearly naked skin pale in the few places it wasn’t blackened to a crisp.  He reached smouldering arms toward me; I took a few hasty steps backwards, and he collapsed at my feet, smelling disturbingly like those nice well-done steaks I used to be able to eat whenever I wanted.

“Oh, god,” I groaned softly.  Not so softly that Sam missed it.

“Was it bad?” Sam asked.  “Just remember, they were dead long before you set them on fire.  You just gave them a decent cremation.”

Shuddering, I circled back and collected my friends.  Corey had carried Hayden back into relatively fresh air before he collapsed to his knees, coughing.  I took his burden from him gladly before helping him up.  Hayden’s smooth chest felt warm against the skin of my back and shoulders, and right now there was nothing I wanted more than the comforting feel of warm living flesh against my own.

* * *

 

“G ood job you had to divert us around those other zombie mobs, Sam.  We found a car on the side of the road, and I was able to refill the fuel can.  Corey was the one who smashed the driver’s window and reached in to unlock the boot.  I just didn’t have the stomach for it.”

“Just doing my part,” Corey said, suppressing a retch.  No:  a cough; he lost the battle and went into another coughing spasm.  I hoped Doctor Myers was equipped to treat smoke inhalation.  Hayden and I seemed to have recovered, though my throat still tasted like ashes.

“It must have been pretty bad then.  I’ll thank you to leave the details to my entirely too active imagination,” Sam said.

“I didn’t see much before I looked away.”  And there was no way any of us could bring ourselves to collect the toys from the back seat, no matter how well the squeaky rubber duck would clean up with soap and water, no matter how easily the few splatters of blood in the cuddly pink lion’s fluffy mane could be trimmed away.  No matter how happy they might make some living child now growing up with no toys at all.

  “We found two backpacks in the boot, and a small baseball bat.”

“Sounds like Corey will make a good runner,” Sam said.  “We can always use people with strong stomachs.”

“I’ll take one of the backpacks,” Corey said when he stopped coughing.

“And I’ll take the other,” Hayden said.  “Although, of course, it’s really you who will be carrying it, Ox.”

* * *

 

W e were about five hundred metres from the gate, no zombies anywhere near us according to Sam’s scanners.  Even with Corey wracked by coughing spasms and me carrying roughly three quarters of my own weight on my back and a small bat in one hand, nothing would overtake us; we were home free.

But something was bothering me.  I’d been debating with myself for some time.  Finally I stopped, swung Hayden gently to the ground, and turned to study Corey.

“Thanks, man.  I can use a rest.”  He coughed.  “Just a few minutes.”

“Corey,” I said gently, “take off your shirt, mate.”

“What?”  He looked around.  “Why now?”

“Because you wouldn’t do it before.  And because Hayden and I stopped coughing from that fire a long time ago.”

He took a couple of steps backwards.  “I was downwind longer than you, and Hayden was on the ground.  Smoke rises.”

“Two very good points.  Now take off your shirt.”

He took another step backwards.

“If you want to run away,” I said wearily, “that’s fine.  I won’t try to stop you.  One more won’t make that much difference.”

“Ox,” Hayden said in a small voice, “surely you don’t think…”

“You must have known,” I said sadly.  “You were on his shoulders when it happened.”  It didn’t take a detective to deduce that:  he’d made it through in one piece, so therefore Corey had not set him down.

Hayden’s shoulders slumped.  “I was rather busy bashing the tops of zombie skulls with a heavy tree branch.”

“I’m sorry, Corey, but I’ll not be responsible for taking you anywhere near that gate until I know you’re clean.  Even then, they’ll probably insist on checking you again.  And remember that I’m in continuous communication with Abel.  Are you still there, Sam?”

Sam’s voice came in as clear as ever.  “Hey…  I don’t know what to say.  I’m _so_ sorry, Ox.”

“So you see, it won’t do you any good to try to overpower me.”

“Yeah, right!” Corey muttered, although he was a reasonably big fellow.

“But you might be able to outrun me,” I hinted.  Everyone in Abel knew I wasn’t a fast runner.  No one would question it.

“I won’t leave Hayden,” he whispered.  “I promised I’d never do that.”  He coughed again.

I swallowed a lump in my throat.  “Then either take your shirt off, or I’ll take it off for you.”

He didn’t move.  I didn’t bother to repeat my threat, mostly because I couldn’t trust my voice not to crack.  I lunged at him, grabbed his damp shirt in both fists, and ripped it wide open.

“Oh god,” Hayden whispered as I stepped aside to let him see the blood matting down his friend’s chest hair, just over his heart.

Corey looked at our faces, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then forced himself to look down at his own chest.  “I kept telling myself I was okay,” he said.  “It didn’t hurt that bad, and I thought…  But still.  Look.  It barely broke the skin.  It’s not even bleeding anymore.  That isn’t enough to be a problem, is it?”

I gently brushed aside his chest hair for a closer look to confirm my fears.  “’No, ’tis not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church-door,’” I sadly quoted my favourite character from _Romeo and Juliet_ , “’but ’tis enough, ’twill serve.’”

“Please, Ox!” Hayden said.  “He’s my best friend.  He’s… he’s all I have left.”

“What do you expect me to do, Hayden?” I asked hoarsely.

“But it’s _my_ fault!  I’m the one who was clumsy enough to twist my stupid ankle.  Corey would have got away from those zombies if I hadn’t been weighing him down.  _He_ should be the one to get into Abel.”

“You have no idea how much this hurts me,” I said.  “But if you think life is fair any more…  well, you should try telling that to the little kid who used to own this baseball bat.”

“We’ll go away,” Hayden pleaded.  “You’ll never see us again, I swear!”

“Hayden,” Corey said, edging pass me to kneel in front of his friend and grip his shoulder, “you know as well as any of us how this works.  You know what will happen to you if we go away together, especially since you can’t run—” he paused to cough, “can’t run away from me.  Remember how you tried to convince me to leave you behind?  Well, now it’s time for me to ask you the same thing.”

I allowed them to have a last embrace.  It’s awkward to embrace while sitting down, but under the circumstances I was just as glad these fellows couldn’t have the full-contact embrace they must have wanted, even though I was absolutely sure the skin on Hayden’s chest was unbroken and the blood on Corey’s chest was dry.  I was also conscious of the fact that Corey was now in a perfect position to bite a chunk out of his friend’s shoulder before I could do anything about it, but I knew there would be no danger of that for some time to come, given that he could still speak.

“Go and live your life, mate,” Corey said, releasing him and standing up.  “Who knows, maybe you’ll be the one to find a cure, so no one ever again has to do what Ox has to do now.”

“Hayden, I’m trying to find a way to spare you from witnessing this,” I said.  “I don’t dare carry you out of earshot; you’d be a sitting duck.  Any suggestions?”

“Oh, man!  This just keeps getting more horrible, doesn’t it?  No, I suppose I’ll just have to close my eyes and put my fingers in my ears.”

I looked around, knelt down to grab a thin fallen tree branch, still green, and crawled over to him. “Here, lie on your side and bite down on this stick.”

“Is thith thuppothed to make it in thome way eathier for me to watch you dath my betht friend’th drainth out?” he asked as I straightened up.

“Not by itself,” I said.  “I’m sorry.”  And kicked him in the jaw.

“Thank you,” Corey said quietly.

I grinned wryly.  “What crazy times we live in, that you’d thank me for kicking your best friend into unconsciousness while he was down.”

“Yeah.”  He coughed.  “I’m ready.  Do you want me on my knees?”

I managed to bite down on the inappropriate humor that popped into my head, even without the benefit of a stick between my teeth.  I’d save my teasing for the living.  Instead I said, “If you would lie face down, I can… pretend you’re already…”

“I understand.”

“Wait.  One more thing first.  And I hate to ask this.”

“Oh, by all means,” he said sarcastically.  “Don’t worry about putting me out.”

“Could you take off your trousers?”

He stared at me.

“Only that some of us risk our lives every day trying to recover something as simple as a pair of trousers.  And your shoes and socks, if you would?  And the shirt too, in case we can salvage it.”

Watching him take off his shoes, I realized with regret that he was relinquishing any chance to outrun me in this terrain.  Wordlessly, he stripped down to his boxer shorts, then lay down in the dirt on his belly, burying his face in the crook of his elbow.  I almost choked up; he looked so vulnerable lying there at my feet, submitting to his fate, with his back completely exposed.  Not that _literally_ stabbing him in the back would do more than hurry things along.

I knelt down and squeezed his trembling shoulder, giving him one last moment of human contact in his final seconds of his life.  “Thanks, man.  Thanks for being so brave about this.”

His back heaved with silent sobs he wouldn’t let me hear.  I rose to my knees and backed away to just over an arm’s length from the back of his head.  I took a deep breath, steeling myself.  If I did it properly, the first blow would spare him from feeling any of the rest.

I would be the only one to have to suffer through those.

* * *

 

“ “H ey…”  Sam said hesitantly in my ear as I trudged back towards Abel.  “Is that the first time you had to do that to someone you knew, Ox?”

“Of course not.”

“Yeah…  I mean while the fellow was still alive.”

“Oh.  Not quite, depending on where you draw the line for ‘alive.’  But this one was especially hard on me.”

“You just met the guy.”

“Maybe I’ll try to explain it to you later.  But could we not talk about this in front of poor Hayden?  He’s awake.”  I’d got him clear of the scene while he was still out cold.  He hadn’t spoken a word, but I could feel his tears dripping onto my shoulder and chest.  “I hope it’s okay that I left the bat behind.  My excuse is that I need one hand to carry the second backpack.”

“Don’t worry.  We’ll send a runner for the bat.  Hey.  Come by and see me when you get in, if you want to talk.”

“I’ll make you my last stop when I distribute whatever’s in these backpacks,” I said.  “How are you doing, Hayden?  I’ll understand completely if you don’t care to speak with me just now, but please say something so I’ll know I didn’t break your jaw.”

“My jaw’s fine.  Throbbing a bit, but I’m glad you knocked me out.  And I’m not angry with you for…  for Corey.  Just leave me be for awhile, okay?”

* * *

 

I rapped lightly on the comms shack door and let myself in.  “Hey, Sam.  Are you busy?”

“Just finishing up a quick supply run for the hospital.  The nearest shambling undead horror is hundreds of metres away.  So, no.  How are you holding up?  Most people need a shoulder to cry on after something like that.  I want you to know I’m here for you, man, if you want someone to bare your soul to.”

“Uh, Sam?”

“Sorry, is that a bit too—”

I interrupted, “Does that light on your microphone mean what I think it does?”

“Oh.  Yeah.”  He turned to speak directly into his microphone.  “You’re doing great, Runner 5.  Keep up that pace and you’ll be at the gate in a couple of minutes.”  This time he remembered to stop transmitting.  “Sorry.”

“Thanks.  Jack and Eugene are enough entertainment for one township, know what I mean?”

“I’m never sure I do.”

I set the nearly empty backpack on the floor.  “Anyway,  Hayden’s all squared away at the hospital for tonight.” 

“I overheard you refusing to let them put him on a stretcher.”

“Yeah, well, I’d carried him all the way to the gate.  Might as well finish the job.  The Doc’s got him on prescription pain meds.  Normally she wouldn’t waste those on a mere sprained ankle, but she’s got a good stock of them now, and, well…”

“Yeah.”  He sighed, probably remembering friends he’d had to watch die.  “At least you spared him from having to watch.”

“And gave the Doc a second flimsy excuse for the pain meds.  Two birds with one stone.”

“Just a second, Ox.”  He switched on his microphone.  “Raise the gates.  Welcome home, Runner 5.”  He took off his headphones and stood up, stretching his back.  “Maybe you’re the one she should have given those meds to.  You look like you could use a drink.  And we’re fresh out of those.”  He put his hand on my shoulder, which was what I _really_ needed, more than I needed a drink.  As nice as it had been to have Sam’s voice in my ear, it was good to have the physical contact again.  I could feel the warmth of his hand even through the T-shirt I’d put on at the hospital after lowering Hayden gently into a bed and promising to visit in a few hours.

“Yeah,” I said, “and after all that, Corey wasn’t even Eugene’s size.  After all the trouble I went to kill him.  Guess I’ll have to try someone else.”

“Yeah, um…” He cast a worried glance at the microphone to confirm it was off this time, then leaned against me and said in a low voice very close to my ear, as if afraid the walls had ears anyway, “Better not say that to anyone who wasn’t right there with you, mate, or they might think you’ve actually lost your sanity.”

“You know when I’m just joking, man!”

“Yeah.  For once, I do.  Some people use dark humour as a way of dealing with tragedy.  Anyone who knows you knows you’d never kill a man for his trousers, and I know you’d really taken a liking to Corey.”

Hearing Sam’s voice right in my ear was comfortingly familiar.  Feeling his hot breath in my ear at the same time was something new.

“He died because he wouldn’t leave Hayden behind,” I said, just barely keeping a sob out of my voice.  “There’s always been something about that…”

“I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do to make you feel better?  Anything at all?”  Suddenly self-conscious, he snatched his hand away from my shoulder and took a half step back.  “Um, like give you an easy opening for more of your innuendo, perhaps?”

What I needed was contact with warm living human skin.  What I needed was a man who’d trustingly expose his back to me for a better purpose than giving him a quick clean death.  But I couldn’t say that directly.  “Actually, if you’re off duty, I still owe you the rest of that hour-long back rub you won.”

“Now?  After what you’ve just been through?”

“A bet’s a bet.”

“I’d never hold you to that!  Not today!  Hang on, _you’re_ offering _me_ a back rub?  You’re the one who just finished carrying a full-grown man on his shoulders for half an hour.  I should be giving _you_ a back rub.”

“Deal!” I said immediately.

“Oh, man!  Did I just… How many square metres did I just agree to cover?  This is going to take for ever!”  He placed the sides of his hands on my broad shoulders as though estimating the linear dimensions, then turned me around and ran a finger down my spine.

I let him finish, then said, “But you first.  Gotta finish paying off my bet.  After all, you did beat me fair and square.”

“Yeah… sometimes I wonder about that.”

I knelt down and slowly, teasingly unzipped the backpack. He asked eagerly, “Did you bring me anything?”

I’d given him a jar of Marmite once, since he was just about the only one here who thought the stuff was noticeably more palatable than axle grease.  And once, I’d shared a chocolate bar with him and a few of our friends — not without a twinge of guilt, but after all, it wasn’t as if I had brought enough for the whole township.  “No chocolate bar this time.  The backpacks did have some tasty-looking things in them, but I gave everything edible to the kitchen, after what you said about the lost lamented olive oil.”  I was having entirely too much fun taunting a friend with what he couldn’t have.

“That was the right thing to do,” he said unconvincingly.

“I did find you a self-inflating ground pad.”

His face lit up.  “Thanks, man!  I really appreciate that.  My back will thank you.”

“It certainly will.”  I folded his two folding chairs, moved aside a few stacks of papers that he’d filed on the floor, then took out the pad and unfolded it.

“You don’t need to demonstrate it here.”

I triggered the inflation mechanism.  “Also, I may be able to answer a question you once told me you wondered about.”

“And what would that be?” he asked warily.

“If olive oil comes from olives, and maize oil comes from maize, and peanut oil comes from peanuts…”

“Oh, that question.  Oh!  Uh… Yeah…” he said nervously.  “I think I see where you’re going with this…”

With a flourish, I pulled a plastic bottle containing a generous supply of clear liquid out of the backpack.  “… Where _does_ baby oil come from?”


End file.
